


What I Hold Dear

by 1000Needles



Series: Hand Me My Leather [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 07:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000Needles/pseuds/1000Needles
Summary: In the dark and empty years that follow, Gladio can never bear to remember the long journey home. But sometimes journeys end in unexpected places.The conclusion of theHand Me My Leatherquartet. Consensual D/s and spoilers through the end of the game.





	

_I: Ruin_

In the dark and empty years that follow, Gladio can never bear to remember the long journey home, if you could call those sun-starved wastelands home. Home would never again be Insomnia. It would never even be their small tent, sentinel against the night. The concept of home becomes meaningless as Prompto and Ignis slip away from him and his last memory of Noctis remains those tortured screams while the Crystal ate him alive.

At first it seemed that the three of them could still function as a unit, even without the linchpin that had always kept them centered on a shared purpose. In the days after losing Noctis, by silent and unexamined agreement, they focus solely on finding a way out of Gralea. When they realize that something is really wrong with Prompto—he's not eating, he's laughing at the wrong things, a shrill, nervous laugh—Ignis steps in, efficient as always, to soothe him through the worst of it. Since that argument on the train, Prompto has kept a certain distance from Gladio. When he remembers putting his hand in his face, shoving him away, he feels sick with shame. He should apologize. But Prompto makes excuses to avoid being alone with him, and he can't bear to do it in front of Ignis, although he knows he would approve. He has so much to atone for. He never apologized to Noctis either, and now he'll never have the chance.

Breaking out of the fortress brings little relief. They find broken MTs and dead bodies no matter how far they walk, unsure of which direction to take but knowing somehow they must find their way back to Lucis. Ignis is assailed by self-doubt, wracked with blame, arguing with Gladio at every rest about whether they should have stayed by the Crystal, if there might have been something else they overlooked. Gladio does his best to be the logical one, but keeping up with Ignis's quicksilver mind is exhausting. And the endless dark eats away at their strength. They sleep in darkness, they wake in darkness, they begin to forget what sunlight feels like. They cling to each other; it's all they have. Niflheim is terrifying. They barely make it out alive.

Tenebrae hasn't been home to Ignis in a long time, not since he was a small child. When Gladio asks if any of it seems familiar, he gets only a tired shake of the head in response. He doesn't remember where his family lived, only that it was somewhere far north, distant from the capital. Still, seeing the country torn apart only darkens his mood further. They try a few times to help the people they encounter on the road, but most shy away, shell-shocked and wary. The Tenebrae refugees speak in accents achingly familiar to Gladio, the same cut-glass syllables and lilted vowels that are so lovely on Ignis's tongue. They drive carts full of possessions too precious to leave behind. They carry portable lighting as protection against the night. Gladio prays they make it safely to Lucis.

The trains aren't running anymore, so Gladio and his companions travel on foot. Ignis frequently stumbles in weariness. His breath comes harder and harder, and when he falls and skins his knees he gasps with pain. To hear him cry out wrings Gladio's heart. But often the way is too narrow for them to walk arm in arm, and he goes ahead, seeking out footing. Prompto follows behind Ignis, helping him when he has trouble getting back on his feet.

Eventually, after days or perhaps weeks that are impossible to reckon without the sun, they find their way out of Tenebrae. Getting back to Lucis takes longer. By then their tempers are worn thin with anxiety and grief.

While Ignis sleeps, Gladio watches; waiting for the pain and the intolerable memory of pain to smooth away from the scarred face, leaving him whole again, if only for a few hours. Are we spared? he thinks. How is it we are spared?

 

LOADING

 

There are rows of caravans behind Hammerhead now, all full of refugees on their way to Lestallum. The three of them are sharing one; the tight quarters don't bother them, they're used to it. Prompto is off somewhere, as he tends to be these days, uncomfortable with the weird unresolved tension that lingers between them. They never realized how much they relied on the balance they had before losing Noctis. Without him, they falter.

Ignis is better now, his confidence regained, although it disturbs Gladio that he seems to have filed away their experiences in Gralea and concluded that Noctis is still alive somehow, implausibly. Gladio tries not to argue too much. He aches for their old easy dynamic, the comfort of believing that Ignis will make the best decision and the pleasure of bowing to a simple and satisfying demand.

They're alone in the caravan. Ignis slides the bolt. His mouth parts as he tilts his head to one side and drags just the tip of his tongue along the upper lip; so subtle, so minor, yet so familiar that Gladio recognizes his arousal immediately. To see that look on Ignis's face as he beckons him forward is intoxicating. He falls to his knees, biting back the moan that rises to his throat.

Ignis's hands are angles and planes, slender, his wrists mobile and expressive. The slightest bend as he gestures communicates nuance beyond words. The silent order to approach can be calculating and examining, warm and affectionate, or an imperious command to submit, all captured in an area easily encircled between thumb and forefinger. This time, it is amused and slightly impatient. Gladio obligingly moves between his knees and Ignis runs a finger down his neck, pushing aside his jacket to expose his bare chest, tapping one nipple with a sudden spark of lightning.

"You shiver so nicely when I touch you. And I don't have to see to know how hard you are, even though this hurts. Or because it hurts, Gladio?"

He sucks in a breath as electricity crackles over his skin again and reaches for Ignis's legs to steady himself.

"Hands beyond your back, darling, you can take this for me, can't you?" Ignis murmurs, splaying his hands over his pecs.

"Yes, Ignis," Gladio says, and obeys, feeling the sweat trickle down his spine, Ignis's fingers igniting nerves that explode into desire throughout his body. He throws back his head without meaning to. "Ah, that's good—"

"Then I'm doing it wrong." He twists a nipple cruelly and Gladio gasps. "You want this, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, Ignis, always!"

"That's what I love about you." Ignis pulls his hands away. Gladio gazes up at him, panting and striving to keep his arms behind his back. He's never said that word before. It's an uncharacteristic reveal of emotion that both gladdens him and fills him with foreboding. It's not like Ignis to let such a feeling slip, even in passing. "You're always eager to be useful."

Ignis unzips his pants and guides Gladio to his cock. There's no foreplay. He grips Gladio's head in both hands, taking his mouth with steady thrusts that soon turn into jabs. His breath is measured, drawn out, not matching the forceful movement of his hips. Gladio keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on being receptive, arching his throat. Still he gags, and welcomes it, feeling tears rise in reflex, wrapping his lips tightly and working his tongue as far as he can reach, the sound of his choking on spit and pre-come the only noise in the room. Ignis laces his fingers through Gladio's hair and fucks his mouth with a savage and increasingly brutal rhythm. He comes while deep in Gladio's throat and pulls out slowly, wiping the taste of it across swollen lips, cheeks, into the close-cropped beard as Gladio coughs and sputters, inelegant, uncontrolled.

"Go on," Ignis says, running a gloved finger lightly down his jawline as he recovers his breath, "I give you permission. Come for me." It takes only a few strokes before he feels his stomach draw taut and he does as he's told, posture crumbling, slumping to rest his forehead on Ignis's thigh. As always, submitting to his command is a pleasure in and of itself.

Later, while they're cleaning up, Gladio can't help but consider the road ahead. They can't stay here at Hammerhead forever. He intends to approach the topic with care, but as they often do, his words come out more bluntly than planned. "Now that Noctis is dead—"

He sees Ignis's expression, and realizes he's used the taboo word they've been avoiding since Gralea.

"If he were _dead,"_ Ignis says, "we wouldn't have this," and his hand traces a fine sparkle of magic in the air between them. Gladio watches the sparks dance back and forth between Ignis's hands, throwing up an eerie haze of light on his blind, scarred face, and the anger rises inside him, irresistible, irrepressible.

"He's dead," he says again, hating himself, but unwilling to stop his words. Together they served a king who was never a king but only a sacrificial lamb; together they served a throne on which a monster now sits. They have spent all their lives in service to a duty that was only lies.

"How do you explain this, then?" Ignis snaps, the flare of magic around him getting brighter.

"You could be drawing it from the Crystal! Who knows! None of us know how this shit works! We saw him get eaten alive by that fucking thing." He pauses for breath, almost gasping, and says in a low, harsh voice, "He's dead."

Ignis's face twists, not in fury; he stumbles, turning away, and Gladio knows he doesn't want to show that he's crying. "Get out."

"Iggy, I'm sorry—"

Ignis's foot catches on the uneven carpet and he trips. When Gladio moves to help him, he shoves him away.

"Get out. Get out!"

Gladio flees, miserable and ashamed.

 

LOADING

 

Takka's Pit Stop is full of hunters instead of its usual harried families. Their gear is stacked in piles everywhere, swords and lances poking into the aisles. Gladio takes Ignis's arm gently and guides him to an open booth. They drink coffee with fresh cream; who knows how long that will last. It's been months since the sun went down and never came up again.

After their argument, Gladio had watched the caravan door from a window booth, nursing a beer, until a few hours passed and he judged it an acceptable length of time for penance. Then he returned inside. Ignis was lying on a bunk; he dropped to his knees beside him, pressed his forehead against the back of his hand.

"I'm terribly sorry.” He kept his voice soft, deliberately using formal manners. "I deeply regret my words at such a time. I beg your forgiveness. Please let me make amends."

He waited, patient, unmoving. Ignis's hand pulled away from his forehead, stroked his hair, but he didn't speak. By the time Prompto returned, they were each in their separate bunks, Gladio pretending to read, the words skimming by meaningless under his gaze.

Now, on more neutral ground, he tries again.

"We could go to Galdin," he says, stirring his coffee, "and help them keep the lights running. Set up a little base on the beach. It would be good for you to rest."

"I don't need to rest," Ignis says sharply, "I need to learn to fight again."

Gladio turns the spoon in his fingers, feeling helpless. They've already had this discussion six different ways, and no matter which conversational path he chooses, Ignis has laid a trap at the end. "If anyone can, it's you."  

"I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you."

"Your voice is full of pain. And I can't stand it. I can't _bear_ it. I need to be ready to fight when Noctis comes back."

He promised himself he wouldn't say it. Once again, he can't stop himself. "He's not coming back."

Ignis lifts his head, and the blank eyes stare past him into darkness. "That's why I can't be with you anymore."

Gladio's heart sinks. That's it, then. The time for soft words is past. His hand slams to the tabletop. "When will you accept it! He's gone. It's over. He's not coming back." It sounds cruel, coming off his tongue, but Ignis's simple, unbending faith is maddening. He has always trusted him. He has always followed his lead, always. Now he is adrift, left to his own faltering judgment, and he almost hates Ignis for it. He stares at the surface of the table, his fingers spread as if in ultimatum, and waits for the correction he has come to rely on, the cleansing fire of anger and the cooling discipline of being called to better behavior.

Maybe this time he's gone too far.

"When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, come and find me." Ignis stands and walks away, his cane tracking across the tile floor. It's not _me_ I'm sorry for, Gladio thinks; but that means Ignis was right, he does pity him, and it's all wrong, all ugly and wrong and unfair.

 

LOADING

 

Compartmentalization comes easily to Ignis. He sees his brain like that, a series of tidy boxes with no overlap, all containing intensely personal moments and beliefs. He puts his memory of Gladio in a box, and he closes it. Then he moves on.

He doesn't admit to himself that sometimes those hard-fought boundaries blur, especially late at night, although night has little meaning now; and his dreams are terrible. Noctis screaming. His own face wet with blood. Hallways that go on and on and somehow in his dreams he can _see_ them, that's the worst part. He never even saw Noctis's face one last time. In his dreams he does and it's unbearable. The child he loved, screaming in agony. Writhing, fighting uselessly to claw his way out of the Crystal as it drags him inside.

When he wakes from another bad dream, gasping for breath, he refuses to mourn the loss of the steady hands that had once given him so much comfort. He has been lonely for most of his life. It was only for a year or so that he knew the startling joy of Gladio's companionship. He can learn to love loneliness again.

 

LOADING

 

Lestallum smells worse than ever, but Gladio doesn't mind. It's the refugees from Tenebrae that bother him. He can't stand hearing that fucking accent. He’ll be pushing his way through the market when he hears someone speaking in the crowd, something innocuous like, "I dare say we could eat here," and he whips around, expecting to see the face he knows as well as his own; but it's an older man with dark hair, ordering up a plate of skewers. He should feel relieved, but he doesn't. His heart drops, every time.

If the city was crowded before, it's ten times more so now, a densely packed mass of humanity all herded into one city under lights that never go out. There was a scare, a few years back, when the power lines failed. Holly and her team got them running again in minutes. Hundreds died.

He doesn't see much of Prompto. The two focal points of post-apocalyptic Lucian society are Lestallum and Hammerhead, and they've ended up at opposite poles. Not surprising, really. Gladio always liked the kid, but the memory of him is all tangled up in the other memories he can't bear to examine. It's better that they keep their distance.

And Prompto's too busy to see him, anyway. The Hammerhead hunters have been making regular forays to the outskirts of Insomnia, where vast warehouses are stocked with enough nonperishable food to keep humanity alive for at least a few years more. These efforts are supplemented by the remarkable strides in hydroponic agriculture under artificial light that the Lestallum scientists are making. Gladio and the Lestallum hunters provide protection for the Meteor, keeping power flowing and the daemons at bay. It's a precarious balance, and it won't last forever. Gladio doesn't let it worry him. He's been through hell already. If this is what comes after, well: it could be worse.

He's back home from another grueling hunt. They lost one of their best, one of Iris's pals, to a hideously overpowered Red Giant. The apartment is too hot, despite the darkness. In the early days they worried that the whole world would freeze, but temperatures haven't been affected much, as it turns out: Lestallum is still fucking hot. The scientists say the sun's still out there, but with a curtain pulled over it, some kind of magic veil. Maybe even a cloud of daemons, hovering out in space, which is an unsettling thought.

He stares in the mirror and applies curative all over his face. People are susceptible to fungus these days; you have to be proactive before it gets its claws into you. Even with the sparkle of potion, his skin has a sickly pallor. He can't help but wonder what Ignis looks like now. Six, he was pale enough back in the bright days, he must be translucent—

Why is he letting himself think of Ignis? He slams the cabinet shut.

"Baby," comes the sweet, imperious voice from the other room, "come here and take care of me."

He ran into Sania Yeager in a Lestallum bar about seven or eight years into the darkness. Considering practically all of Lucis is now crammed into that city, it was really a wonder they hadn't encountered each other sooner. Gladio remembered Professor Yeager fondly; they'd had a brief and debauched fling way back before the fall of the Crown City. She remembered him, and his appetites. Into their third or fourth round of drinks, she'd asked, eyes innocent and bright, "So who have you found to whip your ass around here?" and he cursed his fatal weakness for the combination of a brilliant mind, a pretty face, and a cruel streak wider than the Disc. Not to mention the glasses.

They've been together a few years now and it's good, they make a strong partnership, better together than they are alone. Sania has a laissez-faire attitude about titles, but he always introduces her as his fiancée. He's not sure why. It feels weirdly rebellious; and sometimes Sania gives him a strange, speculating look, but doesn't say anything.

He does care about Sania. Loves her, even. He wants to make her happy. But eventually the drama and passion of their sex play slips into a regular routine, then gets neglected in favor of their work. Sania spends nights in the lab, he spends nights in the field, and what does night even mean now? When Gladio finds himself alone in the apartment, more and more often the visions behind his eyes when he reaches for his cock are of Ignis. It seems he's a permanent fixture in Gladio's psyche. He doesn't like it, but he comes to accept it.

Gladio favors a philosophy of pragmatism. If the sun goes down, learn to live in darkness. If you break your heart, get the fuck over it.

 

LOADING

 

And then, after ten long years, the gods start sending signs, and Gladio finds his lack of faith being tested.

Thunderstorms and earthquakes become a daily occurrence. Gladio dreams of Noctis, but not of the slight, shy boy he was. He's a man now, graying and stern. He looks like his father.

"This rain's going to wash the whole city away," Sania says, her hand at the curtain.

Gladio comes up behind her, sweeps her hair to one side to kiss the nape of her neck. "I have to go, love."

It was the dreams of the dragon that did it. A dragon with a god's face and wings made of swords. When a god commands, a man must obey.

Ignis and Prompto are sitting in a booth together at Hammerhead, curled over cups of coffee. Gladio makes his steps louder than usual, not wanting to take them by surprise. The situation is uncomfortable enough as it is.

"You needn't stomp," Ignis says, "I heard you at the door."

It's true, he is pale, but they all are, and Gladio is shocked—he looks _good?_ Fit as ever, maybe even more so. Self-assured, one arm thrown back over the booth seat. Gladio had been remembering the quiet, pensive Ignis of their journey home, who stumbled and apologized. This is a new Ignis. Not Ignis as he was in the Crown City, but one who has been through the fire and emerged scathed but stronger.

They use the next few weeks learning how to fight with each other again, spending most of their time on separate tasks but coming together for frequent patrols through the desert. Under the vast sky, running along the sand, they don't speak, but the three of them fall back into the old rhythm easily enough. Gladio can't get over how deftly Ignis moves through the dance of battle, hardly pausing as he weaves a deadly design. He'd always known that if anyone could do it, Ignis could, but to see the result before his eyes is astonishing. How is he doing that? Gladio thinks. How did he achieve such mastery on his own?

 

LOADING

 

Gladio wakes in the caravan, momentarily claustrophobic, his head splitting. He staggers outside and runs into Ignis and Prompto, both with stunned faces that tell him they shared the same god-sent dream.

"Call Talcott," he says, and Ignis pulls out his phone. Talcott's on patrol down south, closer to Galdin than anyone else. "He's coming."

The three of them stand around, not speaking, in the parking lot. This is it, Gladio thinks. This is your last chance to say something before the end. Prompto fidgets, drinking coffee from a paper cup. He never used to like coffee.

The reunion, when the pickup truck finally pulls up inside the gate, is not what Gladio had expected. There are no tears, only hearty backslapping. The old king used to do that too. It was easier for him to seal himself off from his people, easier perhaps that way to steel himself for what must be done.

They just seem to be settling into some kind of tentative companionship again when Prompto gets it in his head to start talking about Sania. He's only met her a few times, but apparently she made quite the impression.

"No wedding just yet," Gladio says uneasily.

"So we can't expect a formal introduction for some while, then," Ignis says, deceptively light.

"Yeah. At least not till all this is over. Can't in good conscience leave a girl to worry while I rush headlong into danger."

"Gee, you ought to teach a master class in romance," Prompto says.

"Or acting," Ignis adds, and his tone is so poisonous Gladio shudders.

Up to this point Ignis has given no indication that he even remembers their time together. He has been unfailingly courteous, politely disinterested. Gladio realizes now how foolish he was to trust that bland facade. If Ignis is still angry, if he is bitter or jealous, he would never admit to it. Until they're walking to their deaths. It takes that much to get icy, indifferent Ignis to reveal he hasn't relinquished his claim on Gladio's heart.

Once that would have meant something, but it's too late now. And by the time they step through the gates, he's ready to get this over with. Some things just aren't meant to last forever.

 

LOADING

 

If I must die, Gladio thinks, and don't we all, this isn't the worst place for it—on the stately marble steps of the Citadel, in one final service to Noctis and the throne. The shattered city spreads far below where he stands at the apex of the stairs. Here, where King Regis sent them off together so many years ago, the crumbling architecture retains its some of its former splendor. It's an honorable place to die. He sweeps a great blow through the neck of a misshapen beast and shoves it away, bracing for the next one.

All three of them are prepared to lay down their lives in defense of their king, as hopeless as the fight may be. They won't outlast this onslaught of daemons. Prompto is down on one knee, blood streaming from a gash over his eye; Ignis is limping on a twisted ankle. Gladio is mowing down monsters as fast as they ascend the stairs but knows he can't keep it up forever, just prays he can hold them back from Noctis until he completes whatever terrible bargain he's struck to save the world from eternal night.

Gladio reaches for Blizzaga and comes up empty.

He knows immediately what it means. He looks to Ignis on the other side of the stairs and sees him come to the same horrible realization. They still have the weapons in their hands, even if they've lost access to any other defense. Gladio instinctively moves to protect Prompto with his shield before a furious blast of flame can hit him. Ignis flanks him, daggers flashing. If this is their last stand, they will make it heroic.

"I'm almost out of shots," Prompto says. "Let's make it count, guys."

When his heel hits the wall, Gladio knows the end is near. The daemons have pressed them all the way up the stairs to the Citadel proper. The massive doors behind them are closed and unyielding. Ignis is still fighting as hard as ever, his breathing ragged. Prompto fires into the air, taking down a winged monstrosity. "That's it, last one," he says, and throws his gun, a futile, defiant gesture. It hits a Maralith square in the face; the creature hisses and screams. And keeps on screaming.

"What the hell?"

"I— how did I do that?" Prompto asks, bewildered, ducking behind Gladio and Ignis's blades as another of the snakelike beasts writhes its way with terrible quickness up the stairs towards them. Then it starts screaming too. All around them the daemons are wailing, an awful eerie symphony that raises the hairs on Gladio's arms. He brushes at them in disgust; they're covered with something that isn't blood— dust, ash—  

Ignis tips his face up to the sky. "Have either of you noticed anything unusual about the light?"

"Oh," Prompto breathes, understanding first. "Oh, Gladio, look."

And he does.

The darkness is disintegrating.

He stands there, one hand protecting his eyes, until Ignis says, "Please tell me what's happening."

"Shit, Iggy, sorry." Prompto grabs his hand. "There's ash falling from the sky, feel it? There are— like, little pinpricks of light coming through the black— but the black doesn't look like night anymore, it's moving, it's alive— I don't know how to explain it."

"The whole sky is made of wings," Gladio says, awed, as night collapses around them like a curtain set aflame and reveals the sun at its zenith. After ten years, it's almost as if he's half-daemon himself; the sword drops from his hand, and he flinches from the harsh light as all around them monsters crumble into dust and noon sun illuminates the abandoned city. Prompto turns away too, wincing. Ignis stands without moving, soaking up the warmth and sunlight, his face shining with sweat or tears.

Eventually, they go inside to search for a body, but find nothing. Noctis has been carried off by the gods.

Where the road splits, Prompto turns back towards Hammerhead. "See you around, maybe." Gladio waits to see if Ignis will say anything, but he's silent. If he had been difficult to read before, he is even more so now.

"See you around," Gladio says finally, and takes the road to Lestallum. When he looks back, Ignis is walking into the distance, a tall unbending figure against the stark sunlight.

 

 

_II: Balance_

 

When the sun comes up, no one is more overjoyed than Sania. The swamps and forests she loved are mostly dead, and they won't have magic to help bring them back, but that's what science is for. "I'll miss you, baby," she says cheerfully before she leaves for Alstor Slough, and that's that. Gladio realizes that she, like him, was only ever marking time.

Without Sania, his days are emptier, but sunlight fills them. It's the first time in his life that Gladio hasn't had a purpose.

A few years pass, and then it occurs to him, one day while he's doing nothing more remarkable than hoeing a row of carrots in exchange for a bed at the motel: he's happy. He finds contentment in the smallest things. A gull floating overhead in lazy circles, a crisp sheet dancing on a clothesline. He remembers his old shadow, that constant simmer of anger, with surprised detachment. Somehow, without trying, he's learned to let that fire cool, stopped raking over the coals of old grievances. When he looks back he can't remember why he was so angry all the time. He tries to examine the young man he was with a compassionate eye. It couldn't have been easy, growing up under such a heavy burden of duty to king and country. Ignis, though, did it with beautiful grace and generosity. He ought to have recognized that at the time. He ought to have followed his lead more willingly.

He can't help but wonder how Ignis is doing. He mulls the words that ended it between them.

_When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, come and find me._

The next day, he moves on.

He hitchhikes through the farmlands of Cleigne, through the prairies of Duscae, through the deserts of Leide. He runs into Prompto at Hammerhead, who's cautiously polite but hasn't seen Ignis since that first sunrise. He spends weeks in Insomnia, which looks nothing like the city he remembers. On a whim he tries to find the leather bar where he and Ignis first ran into each other so many years ago, but it's fruitless. The ruins of Crown City have been transformed into an unnerving hive of humanity, organic chaos building upon itself in every direction, a thousand times bigger than Lestallum. Then he boards a train headed out of Lucis, and he disembarks at every stop, until he's crossed nearly every town and every outpost on the long line to Tenebrae off his map.

He turns his search finally to the country's northernmost region, far from the capital city. It's the furthest from home Gladio has ever been. The people here are mostly herders who keep garulas that are leaner and more agile than their Lucian cousins, with silky white fur that's shorn in summer and much prized in trade. They managed to keep them alive, those long ten years, hidden deep in mountain caves and fed with prodigious reserves of hay. The people in the north of Tenebrae are accustomed to long winters with little sunlight. They were more prepared than anyone when permanent darkness struck.

When he describes the tall man with a sunburst scar, the villagers nod. Yes, they can point the way to his house.

 

LOADING

 

He hesitates before knocking, his hand lifted to the door and frozen mid-gesture. He's been anticipating this moment for months but wasn't prepared for the heavy weight of inevitability he feels now, the overwhelming sensation of ending up exactly where he began all those years ago.

"I can hear you out there, you know. Come in and get it over with."

He startles back, then laughs at himself and does as he's told.

It reminds him, powerfully, of Ignis's office back in the Crown City. Stepping through the narrow doorway is almost like stepping back in time. There's the fireplace, the chair, the bed. No books. Gladio winces.

He remembers wondering why Ignis lived in such a small and isolated suite.

"If you fall on your knees," Ignis says, "I will take your head off." His hand is resting lightly on the hilt of a katana.

There's a half-empty bottle of scotch on the table. Ignis is wearing trousers and a dress shirt, open down three buttons, cuffs folded back. No shoes, and his hair is finger-combed at best. Gladio has seen Ignis at ease, he's seen him during and after sex and rough play, he's seen him undressed completely. But he has never seen him looking disheveled.

"Where have you been?" he asks, and realizes as soon as he says it that it sounds like an accusation.

"Right here." Gladio thinks he might be drunk, but his hand is steady as he fills his glass.

"You don't need to be alone. You have friends who care about you."

"Terrific. Any more points you'd like to score? I don't have any friends."

Gladio puts his sword down, leaning it against the wall, and approaches carefully, as he would a feral creature. "We used to be friends."

"We aren't anymore. Get the fuck out."

The first night, he sleeps in the barn, with a couple of ill-tempered goats. He wakes to find Ignis standing over him.

"I told you to go. Why are you still here?"

"There's no inn. I checked." He yawns, stretches cautiously, not wanting to startle Ignis or the angry goats.

"Go home."

"I don't have a home."

"Well, you can't stay here."

After Ignis is gone, Gladio picks up a hoe and gets to work. The garden is well kept, but there's an incursion of thistles threatening the fence line. He makes good progress before the midday sun drives him into the apple orchard for a nap. When he opens his eyes, Ignis is standing over him again.

"Have you even eaten?"

Gladio stretches happily, his muscles warm and relaxed. He likes the Tenebrae climate. It's crisper, not muggy like Lucis can be. "No. Are you offering to feed me?"

Ignis sighs. "It was Noctis who had the soft spot for strays, not me."

Hearing Noct's name is painful, but it's curiously soothing as well. There's no one else now but the two of them, and Prompto, to remember the dead prince. Oh, people venerate him, of course; every child knows the story. But they didn't spend long days watching him fish, wrestling in the back of the car, bickering amicably over a plate of french fries. Gladio says thoughtfully, "He would have liked it here. You have a peaceful home. Is there a lake nearby?"

Ignis laughs, almost a bark. "Ha! No. And he hated gardening. You'd better come inside. I've got some leftover stew."

While he eats, Gladio absorbs the changes in Ignis's face. He's as beautiful as ever, but now the cracks and scars accentuate it, setting off his porcelain skin like embroidery on a piece of fine silk. He's thin as if worn down to the bone, so pale he looks ill. Yet it's the same face Gladio remembers, strong and proud.

"Don't you ever go in the sun?"

"Not if I can help it."

"He would have wanted you to be happy."

"You don't know what he'd want. He's dead."

But Ignis doesn't always seem miserable. Gladio is elated, the first time he watches him cook, to see how quickly his blades move, chopping onions, carrots, garlic into tidy piles. He gets these staples from his own garden. For more exotic vegetables, there's a little market down the road, nothing like the cacophony of Lestallum's endless stalls, just a dozen or so carts and the occasional itinerant peddler.

It's clear, for all he tries to hide it, that Ignis has been lonely. He doesn't object when Gladio beds down for a second night in the hay. The third night, he says, "You might as well sleep in the house. The goats are getting tired of you." He makes a pallet for Gladio on the floor.

"We used to sleep like this," Gladio says, toeing the edge of the bedding, amused; but Ignis doesn't answer.

The summer days are long and pleasant. He finishes with the thistles and moves on to a persistent vine that dearly wants to engulf the corn. Ignis often sends him to do the grocery shopping, partly because it's easier for him to handle the gil, and because Gladio genuinely enjoys dickering over produce and inquiring after the health of little old ladies. One day he comes home with a book.

He picked it because it was the biggest one they had, and he is starved for stories. It's a translation from some foreign language Gladio has never heard of. That night, he presses it into Ignis's hands.

"Could I read to you?" He tries not to sound too eager.

Ignis runs his fingers over the engraved letters. "I would like that."

It turns out to be about a prince, who represents war, and a farmer, who represents peace. Gladio reads a section every night and uses it to persuade Ignis outside during the day, coaxing him, "It's hot in here, come read with me under the apple tree."

When his voice gets tired, they lie back and turn their faces to the light filtering down through the leaves, a ceaseless dance that Gladio is never bored of watching. "How are the trees still alive?" he asks.

"A lot of them aren't. But the people here managed to keep the lights on, all those years, even this far from the city. They rigged up a system with generators, and the local hunters kept the petrol coming from Niflheim. Dangerous caravans, and a lot of them didn't make it." Ignis presses a finger to the corner of his lips, a small tell that Gladio remembers from the old days, of regret and pain. "I wish I could have been here to help."

There's a hint of autumn chill in the air when they get to a description of the prince, wounded on the battlefield and staring at the sky, that is so true in the telling Gladio lets the book fall to his knees and sighs.

"It was just like that, wasn't it?"

"Remember Gralea? Even the way it smelled made my skin crawl. Antiseptic and rot at the same time."

"Astrals, yes. Dead bodies everywhere—"

"I was so glad you were with me." Ignis's voice is low. "I kept imagining Prompto, all alone in that place. And Noct, having to fight his way through by himself. I was still learning how to move around on my own. I was terrified the whole time, thinking of what would happen if we were separated."

"I wouldn't," Gladio says, roughly, the memory still raw. "I would never have let that happen."

There's a pause.

"But you did," Ignis says, cold and clear. "For almost fifteen years."

Gladio's eyes sting with the injustice of it. "You told me to!"

"When did you ever let that stop you?" Ignis snarls, and turns away.

Years ago, Gladio would have snapped back with an instant rejoinder meant to hurt. Now, he absorbs the words, looking down at his hands.

"That's not true," he says softly. "I've always obeyed you. You told me to come back when—" he takes a deep breath— "when I stopped feeling sorry for myself."

"And have you?"

He considers. "Yes." And helplessly, he adds, just as he did that first time in Ignis's office, "I want to serve you."

Ignis stiffens. Gladio can feel the minute movement beside him, the way his whole body goes perfectly still.

"When you said that, I told you I was a servant."

"I remember."

"I don't even have that anymore."

The wind has picked up; the branches groan overhead, dislodging leaves that flutter down slowly around them.

"So now you're feeling sorry for yourself? That's new."

"It's not. As you would have known if you'd bothered to talk to me since Noctis died."

Gladio folds a leaf until it cracks into pieces. It gives him something to concentrate on while he thinks. "It wasn't easy for me, either. I needed time."

Ignis laughs, low and harsh. "Oh, I bet. Tell me, what was the first thing you did? Hitch a ride down to the beach and get a nice tan? Pick up a cute piece of ass?" His voice is ragged with pain. "Tell me how hard it was for you. Go on, I want to hear."

Once he knew how to hurt Gladio beautifully. Now it just hurts. "When Noctis died," Gladio says, choosing each word as he puts himself through the grief and remorse again, "I remembered every cruel thing I ever said to him. I remembered when I told him to grow up and give a shit about someone else. I remembered when I told him he was a coward. I remembered what his face looked like afterwards, as if he couldn't believe it, but also as if he very much did. He didn't push back. He listened to every bit of it, and he tried— he tried to be better. He wanted my approval so badly. And I hardly ever let him know that I was proud of him."

 

LOADING

 

Ignis used to be good at compartmentalizing. He lost that skill when Noctis died. It felt like punishment for his pride: he'd taken such grim joy in surpassing everyone's expectations, never losing faith, always certain the king would return. He should have known the gods would be cruel. How had he imagined that they would spare him one last torment? Take my city and my family. Take my eyes. Take Gladio. I will bear it, I will smile and it will make me stronger. My love for my king is all I have left.

After the sun came up, he fled for Tenebrae like a child seeking forgiveness. Nothing fit into boxes anymore; everything in Lucis rubbed him raw, reopened unbearable wounds.

He never expected Gladio to come knocking on his door. In his past life, he would have planned for such an eventuality. But the unbidden happiness that comes jumping into his throat at Gladio's appearance is welcome and unsurprising. It feels like coming home.

He has been calculating all his rejections, all his rebuffs of Gladio's endless attempts to breach his walls, with increasing indecision. He remembers his stubbornness, yes, but everyone has their limit, and Gladio is a proud man. And as the weeks go by it becomes more difficult to remember why he's refusing what he desires. He has shied away from other people for so long that he's almost forgotten the touch of human skin. He feels the heat from Gladio's body, when they sit reading at night, as a tangible presence. Ignis is not made of ice; or if he sometimes appears to be, he is just as susceptible as ice to melting.

So when Gladio closes the book and sets it on the table by the bed where they're cross-legged next to each other, he waits with a sense of inevitability for what he knows is coming.

"Could I give you a massage?" Gladio asks. His voice is gentle, conciliatory, warm. It's brave. He must be bracing for scorn.

"Yes," Ignis says, and the only thing that surprises him is that he lasted so long before giving in.

Face down on the bed, stripped to his trousers, he pillows his head on his folded arms. He hears a cooking jar opening and smells coconut oil from Galdin, a favorite of his, a precious and prized commodity this far north.

The touch of Gladio's hands on his body is a revelation.

He realizes, later, how close he must have been at that point to going completely mad, growing a long beard for birds to nest in, running naked through the forest eating berries. Gladio's hands bring him back to himself. He doesn't work them deeply into the muscle like he used to, back when Ignis was always a mass of unresolved tension. This time, it's more like a caress that starts at his upper shoulders and fans out, each stroke spreading the fragrant oil wider, up his neck, over his biceps, down his waist, and he has to turn his face into his forearms to hide the tears that spring to his eyes. It's been years since he cried, and never over anything as simple as a massage.

 

LOADING

 

It's the first snowfall of the season. The goats have been watered and supplied with plenty of hay. Ignis is lying on the bed; Gladio is in the armchair, reading aloud. They're almost done with the book.

When he finishes the chapter, Gladio stands, the blind face tracking his movements. Gladio knows by now that Ignis sees almost as much as he used to, though not with his eyes.

He kneels formally on the floor. He feels the depths of him wakened, not by a game, but by honor and love, by a scarred face and an unbending will. His heart goes out to Ignis utterly, not with only the raw passion and desire of their early years, but with compassion, something truer, an unbreakable bond.

"Ignis." He manages to speak steadily. "Let me serve you. Please."

"Gladio, you are no man's servant."

"I am yours. If you will have me."

"Romantic fool. You believe in fairy tales. Do you think I'm a noble hero out of some story?"

"Absolutely."

Outside, the wind knocks branches against the house. The only other sound is the logs snapping in the fire. The wooden floor is cold under his knees. Gladio bows his head, waiting.

Ignis leans forward and cups his face in his palms. "I never stopped missing you."

It has been more than a dozen years since they kissed. It feels like only a brief interruption. Ignis's lips are notched with small imperfections; Gladio traces them hungrily with his tongue, dizzy with happiness.

Ignis wraps his arms around him, cradling his head, one hand sweeping across his shoulder blades. They fold into each other, chest to chest, Gladio running his fingers up into Ignis's hair, Ignis sliding a hand down his back into the waistband of his trousers, pulling him up onto the bed, hips together. Gladio runs his hands up Ignis's ribs, across the planes of his body, muscle and ridges, over his heart. Ignis matches Gladio's kisses with a trail of his own. "Still mine," he whispers. "Tell me."

"Yours." Gladio arches up, helplessly, still obeying after all these years.

 

LOADING

 

Gladio waits to be pushed to the floor. When the command doesn't come, he curls into the narrow space between Ignis and the wall like an overgrown puppy. The feel of Ignis's stubble is incendiary against the back of his neck, scraping under his ear. His arm locks Gladio in place, hand pressed up into the center of his chest, flat and hard, surely leaving an invisible mark next to the whorl of ink and the head of the bird.

"Do you still have your cane?" he murmurs, relaxed enough to dare it.

Ignis laughs, softly, not the brusque bark that Gladio's grown accustomed to. He turns his head. Ignis is smiling, a sweet, joyous smile that is startling on his usually serious face.

"No. It disappeared wherever all the other weapons went. All I have left are my daggers."

"I sold my shield. Astrals know what they did with it, turned it into scrap metal, maybe. All I have left is my sword." Gladio looks to the corner where it's standing against the wall, nearly reaching the ceiling.

"Not much use for a farmer."

"Is that what I am now?"

Ignis's fingers curl into his hair. "Do you have any other skills I should know about?"

Gladio's heart is racing, that old familiar thrill, so missed, so welcome. "I'm told I have a talented tongue."

Ignis laughs again. "Really! Whoever told you that didn't appreciate you enough, then, to let you stray so far." His hand moves down Gladio's jaw. He doesn't wear gloves anymore; his fingers are rough and calloused. They brush his lips, slip inside his mouth. Gladio sucks, eyes closed, tasting salt.

  


**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing [Hand Me My Leather](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9127279), I never intended for it to become a four-part series, much less end up spanning the entire length of the game and beyond. My deepest gratitude and appreciation to [Sekiei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sekiei/pseuds/Sekiei), who helped me wrestle this behemoth of a story into submission! I couldn't have done it without you <3


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